


Held Me Down in This Starless City

by Fudgyokra



Category: Green Arrow (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mob, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Humor, M/M, Mild Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-25
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:21:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21645151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fudgyokra/pseuds/Fudgyokra
Summary: “What’ve you been up to in your years of paternal abandonment?”Okay, so that one stung a little. Ollie laughed once without humor and took a sip of his wine, harboring the faint suspicion that someone was going to approach at any time and critique his lack of swirling, or whatever else he was supposed to do with it.“Well, I shoot people for money.”
Relationships: Roy Harper/Oliver Queen
Comments: 7
Kudos: 27





	Held Me Down in This Starless City

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the wonderful Kou as part of a Secret Santa. This was my first exchange ever! I watched _In Bruges_ to prepare for writing something mafia-slash-hitmen-related and included some quotes and plot points from it for funsies. Hope you enjoy it, Kou, and happy holidays!
> 
> Title from Fall Out Boy's "Tiffany Blews."

Ollie got into “the business” later in life than most. No thin-lipped smiles when recounting missions he regretted, no friends lost and avenged with a gun, no willingness to die for his syndicate out of a sense of loyalty. All he had to his grunt reputation was a mouthful of quips and a near-disastrous save of an acquaintance from certain doom. That acquaintance, now his superior, was one foul-mouthed Eddie Fyers.

Eddie wasn’t a particularly kind boss, nor was he helpful in moral crises (of which Ollie had many), but what he lacked in humanity he made up for in preparation. It was the main reason Ollie bothered staying with him at all. It was also why it was concerning to receive the message that he had, after a nightmare of an inaugural mission. _Get to Bruges,_ penned in hideous script.He didn’t even know where Bruges fucking was.

It was in Belgium.

Peppermint pink skies over semi-vacant streets, with just enough tourist foot traffic to make it a pinpoint in an otherwise boring country. All in Ollie’s opinion, of course, since he felt he had been in a million better venues than this, even back when he and Hal were roughing it across the American countryside in a pickup.

But, he was here for a reason. Even if Eddie’s suspicious lack of communication about said reason was putting a damper on Ollie’s mood.

He wrapped his jacket tighter around himself, the wintry air of the holiday season beginning to seep through. Where he was from, he hardly even needed a coat this time of year, much less layers, of which he’d erroneously worn none today. Boots on the pavement and the chatter of passers-by were all the company he had for a while, trapped in his own head on the journey to Raamstraat seventeen, a crummy inn that would serve as his refuge while he waited on further instruction from Eddie.

Ollie would call him a bastard, but he knew it was his own fault for balking at the first mission the man gave him. In “the business,” he’d been told, slights like that got you killed, or worse, and wasn’t he lucky Eddie liked him so much? It hadn’t felt lucky, taking that job. Hadn’t felt lucky walking into the church, or sitting down in the confessional with its paneled wood and marvelous lacquer. Sacrilegious, sure. Stuffy, definitely. But not lucky.

_“I murdered someone for money, Father.”_

_“You murdered someone for money?”_

_“Yes, Father. Not out of anger. Not out of nothing. For money.”_

_“Who did you murder for money, Oliver?”_

_“You, Father.”_

It was fit to be the truth before something seized in Ollie’s blood like a coagulation of something Bruce’s little darling would have called antiquated morality. Surely the priest had done something to deserve this, he remembered thinking, trying to convince himself he needed to take that man’s life. There had been paperwork, and photos, and—it didn’t matter.

The gun blast echoed like a killing blow, but Ollie had only hit his leg through the slats between them. The priest took two steps from the confessional and hit the ground with all the grace of a limping runt. All Ollie needed to do was put the next bullet in his head. It would have been easy, physically speaking. After all, the first shot hadn’t been a miss on purpose.

He couldn’t do it. He’d known as much from the start.

Still, he maintained that the shot he did make was a good one, morally if not aim-wise, but Eddie didn’t share the sentiment. A dozen F-bombs poured into a healthy session of chewing Ollie out was what became of his evening, and he found himself on a mandatory train ride to Bruges the next morning, awake before even the sun. Man, some people had no sense of propriety.

Closer to the inn, he happened upon a bustle of people surrounding a camera crew. Stagehands and coffee-fetchers, actors and actresses, with the director at the helm in all applicable movie star gear. Before he could wonder what kind of pretentious capitalist would want to make a film here, he spotted a familiar face, making his own life into one right before his eyes.

A lean, fit build—taller than he remembered, given the decade it had been since they last spoke—and a mess of red waves pulled into a ponytail stood out against the white tarp shielding the snack bar. It was unmistakably Roy who hovered by the table, topped with treats of a far more literal nature and yet only half as appealing a reason to approach the set.

Sneaking under the rope and past the crew was easy enough; nobody seemed to care who he was or what he did, as long as he didn’t disturb the director’s flow of genius. The one who _did_ care was Roy, who was stirring cream in his coffee when Ollie approached, and looked ready to drop the thing and flee the moment he spotted him. Ollie thought he should probably feel offended or guilty, but all he could think to do when he saw Roy’s eyes go wide was chuckle, and soon after that, widened eyes narrowed with impressive speed. Zero to sixty in the emotions department, as always, he noted.

Roy’s first words to him were: “What the hell are you doing in Belgium?” A damned good question, actually.

Now that he was here, though, he wanted to remedy the fact they hadn’t spoken in ten years. He leaned an elbow on the table. “How ‘bout I tell you over dinner?”

Roy’s eyes went wide again. Once a cute kid, always one. After enough beats of silence to make things awkward, Roy surprised him by laughing, a sound all the way from the belly like it was the most hilarious thing in the world. By the time he was done, it was Ollie’s turn to squint moodily.

“All right,” he said, holding his hands aloft as if in defeat. “I get it. That’s a big ‘fuck you’ to the old man.”

“Yeah,” Roy agreed. His eyes were crinkled at the corners, lashes wet with tears, and he sported a toothy grin that seemed like it should have been outgrown by now. “I’ll be ready by six.”

Ollie softened up more out of reflex than any change in temperament. He didn’t have it in him to disagree with a smile like that.

* * *

The restaurant was pretentious, not unlike the type he used to frequent before the bankruptcy. Roy ordered like he hadn’t even heard about the company tanking, but Ollie figured it wouldn’t have changed his mind if he had.

Plates of tablespoon-sized entrees drizzled in sauces probably containing the word “reduction” were slid in front of them, a bottle of pricey Merlot thumped down after with grandeur. Briefly, Ollie tried to picture an iHop waiter unloading plates with that much gusto.

“So,” he began, watching Roy uncork and pour the wine before so much as sniffing his food, “long time no see.” His glass was getting much less poured into it, he observed. Probably shouldn’t have led with that. “I mean, you look good. Shaped up to be a really handsome young man. How old are you now, twenty?”

“Try adding another Lincoln.”

Ollie whistled appreciatively as he accepted his glass and leaned back in his chair. “Twenty-five. Practically ancient.”

“Please. I can hear your joints creak from here,” Roy said, pleasantly enough. “What’ve you been up to in your years of paternal abandonment?”

Okay, so that one stung a little. Ollie laughed once without humor and took a sip of his wine, harboring the faint suspicion that someone was going to approach at any time and critique his lack of swirling, or whatever else he was supposed to do with it. _Strong bouquet,_ he imagined himself saying in a nasally voice, _so-and-so mouth-feel._

“Well, I shoot people for money.” He’d like to see Roy be a smart-ass about that. “Shot a priest on the way over. What do you do?”

“I sell cocaine and heroin to Belgian film crews.” Spoken with complete casualness, even followed by an unbothered sip of his drink.

A second of silence while Ollie sucked down more wine, then: “Oh, do you?”

Roy and his mischievous smile leaned across the bistro table. “Do I look like I do?”

Ollie automatically followed him in, until they were far too close to be considered platonic. “…You do, actually.”

Roy laughed, eyes crinkling at the corners again, the way Ollie liked. He could get used to this. If only all their interactions were so easy and natural. After a bit of staring, gaining slow heat like an old-fashioned oven, he cocked an eyebrow and bit the curiosity bullet. “Do I look like I shoot people?”

The break in conversation this time was even longer, punctuated by all the impishness in Roy’s eyes muting to something almost dismally fond. His smile remained, albeit thin. Bloodless. “No.” He leaned back, tipped his wine toward his mouth like a lifeline, and came back looking brighter, as if he’d never faded at all. “Just priests,” he said.

Ollie thought he might be able to stare at the bob of Roy’s throat as he swallowed all night long. Absently, he murmured, “Very funny, brat.”

The gaze that returned to him was fiery in all the right ways. “Waiter,” Roy called without looking back, “boxes for the food, please.”

Ollie appreciated the fact they were on the same page, because even though neither of them had taken a bite of their food, something much more appetizing begged to be between his teeth.

* * *

They hit the door to his bedroom at the Raamstraat with a thump, collectively ignoring the weakly-whined protest from the wood and her old hinges. From where he was pressed, Roy had one hand groping for the doorknob and the other groping elsewhere. The second it clicked open, Roy spilled onto his back on the carpet, laughing, red-faced and tipsy, when Ollie toppled down after on all fours.

Roy’s hands lifted to cradle his face, fingertips inching downward to feel his beard almost reverently.

“They oughta call this the city of love,” Ollie teased, hooking a hand beneath Roy’s hip and assisting him into an arch so he could work the kid’s obnoxiously tight jeans off his body.

“There’s already a city of love, jackass.” Roy fought the giggle bubbling to his lips as Ollie trailed ticklish kisses down his stomach. “It’s—it’s in Paris.” He swallowed hard, a gentle parting of those lips delivering a wholly different sound: A soft, sweet moan as Ollie moved lower. “In France,” he corrected himself, whispering now. “Paris is the city. Duh.”

Fingers curled in Ollie’s hair, tightening barely a second after his mouth found its mark and began laving filthy kisses down the length of Roy’s cock. “It shouldn’t be Paris,” Ollie answered, halfway muffled. “This city’s got plenty of love, if you ask me.” He forgot the justification he was going to add and instead swallowed Roy down in a moment of buzzed decision-making.

The kid’s moan was pretty, bouncing off the peeling wallpaper and everything. Lit Ollie up like the Christmas lights strung all over the place.

“You’re a sap,” Roy whined. “You’re a moron. You’re—” Having apparently run out of insults, he settled on pushing himself to his elbows and tilting his head back, shuddering bodily at the attention between his legs— “ _so_ good at that.” Ollie had to stop just to laugh, because it felt right. Roy kept his head back for a moment longer, remaining bathed in the glow of the multicolored lights for long enough that Ollie’s chest felt tight. By the time Roy looked down again, the mischief had unearthed itself again. “Bed,” he demanded, “now.”

If Ollie wasn’t going to deny him dinner or a visit to the inn, he certainly wasn’t going to deny him _that._ Come to think of it, after all the years he had missed, he didn’t think he could rightfully deny him anything at all.

* * *

He’d hardly had anything to drink last night and the sunlight filtering through the blinds still gave him a headache. Maybe he really was getting old. Groaning, Ollie rolled onto his side, finding a pale, freckled shoulder sticking out from the mess of blankets and dutifully covering it before slinging his arm over Roy’s waist. The kid slept soundly. Ollie might have been a little jealous.

Right as he was beginning to drift back off himself, the phone rang with such ferociously evil timing that it could only be Eddie, giving Ollie’s theory that his boss was the devil a hefty percentage more traction. He picked up the receiver. It was laughably dainty in his large hand, which was something he would be snickering at if he weren’t dog-tired.

“Howdy, fella,” Eddie greeted. Ollie groaned and earned a tinny chuckle in response. “Did you have a nice night?”

He flashed back to yesterday, only a handful of tender dawn hours separating him from it, and the images of Roy bouncing in his lap, mouthing his name, pulling his hair. Begging, breathless. _“Daddy, daddy—”_

“Uh, yeah. Yeah I did.” He sat up, rubbing idly at the back of his head. “What do you need?”

“For you to get a pen and paper.”

He muttered a curse under his breath and fished for the necessary items in the end table drawer. Eddie gave him an address and a man’s name, and the more he prattled on about Bruges and its beauty, as opposed to anything having to do with the information, the more Ollie’s apprehension grew. Something wasn’t quite right. “Eddie,” he said, cutting off a long-winded speech about mist and swans and fairy tales, “what is the address for?”

“It’s where you’re gonna pick up your gun.”

“You sent me on a mission? In _Bruges?_ ” Ollie was getting loud, stirring Roy from his cocoon of blankets.

“Call it a makeup test,” Eddie answered, tone entirely too cheerful. “You let me down once. You won’t do it again. If you do, it’ll be the last time.”

Ollie pursed his lips, measured a breath. “The name on the paper.”

“Delightful guy. Gonna give you a real stellar pistol.”

“Who’s the target, Ed?”

“A reliable source tells me you’ve got an old friend at, ah, arm’s length, if you catch my drift. Conveniently, it’s the perfect chance for you to get back in my good graces. Loyalty comes with a price, Oliver.” Ollie’s blood didn’t even have time to run cold before Roy wrapped a hand around his own on the receiver and pulled. From across the distance of empty sheets between them, Ollie could hear Eddie’s far-away voice say, “I hate it for you, really, I do. But, hey, who in this line of work hasn’t shot a loved one? At least you got to fuck yours first.”

Roy held the phone like a trophy, brandished high as if he were contemplating striking Ollie with it and running. The distrust in his eyes didn’t hurt as much as the resignation making him look so tired, like he had been waiting for betrayal a decade in the making. Like he wasn’t surprised at all.

Eddie kept harping for a response that didn’t come until, finally, he gave up and ended the conversation with a click. Now the only sound was the buzz of a dead line, and Ollie didn’t have the heart to take the phone from Roy to hang up properly.

“So, that’s it, huh?” Roy asked, voice tight. “I knew you had a sick sense of humor, but Christ. Gotta pop me off, might as well get a good lay out of it, right? So you can brag later like it was a funny vacation memory.”

“Quit it,” Ollie snapped. “You know it’s not like that.” He reached for phone, then changed his mind and wrapped his outstretched hand around Roy’s wrist instead. “I didn’t know he was gonna ask me to— _Jesus._ I would never do that to anybody. Especially not you.”

Roy visibly struggled with which parts of the response to believe, searching Ollie’s face as if it would make anything clearer. In the moment, he looked like a kid again, frail and afraid and far too willing to jump the gun if it meant keeping people at an emotional distance. It didn’t matter that he had a five-o-clock shadow and a square jaw, a crooked nose from too many fistfights and insomnious smudges beneath his eyes. He seemed overwhelmingly in need of guidance, and, despite everything Ollie had put him through, he wanted to be the one to give it to him.

Too bad he was going to _die,_ he thought. What a piss-poor time to lament. “Roy, he’s going to kill me. After that, he’s coming for you. What I need you to do is get on the next train and go wherever the hell it takes you. I don’t care how far, but it’s gotta be away from here.”

Roy scoffed, shoving Ollie’s hand off and dropping the phone in the sheets in the process of clambering out of them. Standing now, he refused to look Ollie in the eye. “What, you didn’t even think twice about it? I find that difficult to believe. How much money am I worth? Hope it’s a lot, bastard.”

“I’m not going to do it.”

“Why not?” When he twisted around, hair kinked and wild around a face with an expression too pitiful for his countenance, it ached just to look at. Within a second, though, he reassembled himself. “I’d do it,” he said. A lie aimed to drive the knife deeper, Ollie could tell. Twist the handle, make someone else hurt worse than you did. Classic.

“Go to this address, then.” Ollie handed him the notepad. “Talk to this man, buy the gun, put a bullet in me. You show Eddie that kind of resolve and I’m sure he’d hire you in my place. Hell, he would like you better than he likes me. Might be the best way to win, after all, eh, kiddo?”

Roy’s lips rescinded in a grimace that fell short of the intended snarl. “You have no right to say that to me! I wouldn’t do that to—” He cut himself off, making a noise of frustration before ultimately losing all rigidity and crumpling back onto the mattress like a tossed paper doll. His shoulders bowed, and when they did, Ollie wound an arm around them and pulled Roy close to his chest.

“I know you wouldn’t do that. It’s okay.”

He mistook the slumping and subsequent lack of fight for defeat. What he didn’t expect was the way Roy straightened a second later and gave him a wan smile, sideways and boyish despite the exhaustion etched too deeply in his face to combat. “You’re a fucking asshole, you know?”

Ollie’s brows lifted. “Hey, you just threatened to shoot me.” Only a tease. Roy smiled brighter this time, eyes crinkled. He really was a remarkable kid.

“Now I guess we’re gonna have to deal with this Eddie prick.”

“When’s your schedule open?” Ollie grinned, shoving Roy playfully and earning a shove right back, hard enough to pin him to the bed.

Leaning over him, Roy twisted a finger in his beard and tugged. “Whatever day is most convenient to keep you from getting your ass killed.”

“Tomorrow, then. And don’t worry,” he added, watching the slide show of emotions pass across Roy’s face the longer he talked, “this time, I’m not going anywhere. It’ll be you, me, and an American-made shotgun.”

Roy swallowed hard around the confessions wanting out, a decade of things left unsaid going down like a lump. Later, then. Maybe in the park by the pond, so they could watch the shimmer of all the wreathed streetlamps reflected by the water. Like a fuckin’ Hallmark movie.

He laughed at the fantasy, breathy and soft, ghosting over Ollie’s lips with the sound as he hovered. “Actually,” he said, “you know what? I’m a way better shot with a good old-fashioned bow and arrow.”


End file.
